Because: History Is Changed by Very Unusual People

By AM Olivier

Bec Otinga, a young girl, is rescued under strange circumstances from war-torn Africa and brought to the UK by an unlikely alliance between the future Archbishop of Canterbury and a shadowy organization that searches the world for people with unusual capabilities.

Bec graduates at seventeen, then disappears, reemerging a year later having written a compelling book called Enough. It rapidly becomes a global best seller. Enough advocates a lifestyle based on an alternate philosophy, a different worldview. She establishes a foundation based on these tenets. She believes that the worlds leaders have failed humanity.

The Enough movement spreads virally, challenging established orders and institutions of leadership. People flock to its banner, energized by the books teachings and its charismatic young author.

People make their movean act of faith in the new order, discarding materialism for living with a compelling personal purpose, namely to play an active role in birthing a New World Order. Enough rejects market capitalism and the sovereignty of nations.

Bec and her followers spearhead the growth of Enough into a major global movement that musters hundreds of millions and starts to usher in a new society. The story unfolds across the UK; Australia; Argentina; Central, West, and Southern Africa; the USA; and Europe.

Bec declares war on the old order; however, this is not a conventional war but one based on Gandhis passive resistance. In the process, they create deadly enemies.

By twenty-seven, she is a global superstar, and religious institutions battle to make sense of her. Her journey is complicated by rumors of a power to perform healing miracles. As her campaign to save Gaia grows, some begin to wonder if a Green Dictator has arisen, doing what democracies and despots have failed to do. But time is running out for her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Dec 6, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543403459

AM Olivier

"Andrew has had a diverse career as an archaeologist, professional soldier, successful business man, entrepreneur, artist and member of the Global Ecovillage Network. He has published two business books and this is his first novel. He consciously lives his philosophy of 'Do no harm'.

Book preview

Copyright © 2017 by AM Olivier.

Library of Congress Control Number:      2017916867

ISBN:                      Hardcover                      978-1-5434-0347-3

                                Softcover                        978-1-5434-0346-6

                                eBook                              978-1-5434-0345-9

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 11/30/2017

Xlibris

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Chapters

Prologue: 1975

Chapter 1     First Contact

Chapter 2     London

Chapter 3     Second Contact

Chapter 4     Enough

Chapter 5     The Legacy Starts

Chapter 6     After the Concert

Chapter 7     The Interview

Chapter 8     The Legacy Grows

Chapter 9     The Holiday

Chapter 10   The Second Interview

Chapter 11   The Colonel’s Story Continues

Chapter 12   The Colonel’s Story: Reunion

Chapter 13   Lambeth Palace, Home of the Archbishop of Canterbury

Chapter 14   Onwards

Chapter 15   Contracts: Caleb Meets Larissa

Chapter 16   Caleb Serves Somebody

Chapter 17   Larissa Makes Her Move

Chapter 18   City of Light

Chapter 19   Celebration

Chapter 20   Aftermath

Prologue: 1975

The chanting reaches a crescendo

The dancing stops

Drums falling silent

the moon shines out bright.

Below, flaming twists and turn

fiery sparks shooting

Up to the starry night

Stark-bright moonlight.

All standing still,

Time circled fire

holding mystic space;

Elements fuse to brace.

Falcon calls to Frog,

To Lemming and to Wolf,

To Shark, to Lavender,

To Olive and to Rose,

To Panda and Koala,

To Hemp and to Grass, to Oak and to Daisy,

Calling out lizard and snake,

Hedgehog, Ox, Lion, and Lamb,

To Sable and Man,

Awake!

Firefly will come (forty score):

To heal the world’s core;

To undo what is done,

And join shattered shards.

We will rejoice and salute.

A welcome create,

Her temple to make,

For Firefly we wait,

one and all will connect

Her Oracle now clear:

Enough reverberates!

Chapter 1

First Contact

It was a terrifying and unbelievable spectacle. A small girl changed my life—forever.

Some background before I tell you what happened. I am a professional soldier and have been at war for most my adult life. I am a rational and very professional man. The truth is over the years I have become an adrenaline junkie. I enjoy living each day as if it is my last, often a distinct possibility. I also like the bush; I enjoy the camaraderie and the sharp edge of life. For a single experience to have destroyed my life and my rationality is inconceivable, but it did, and I don’t know what to do now.

For the past 20 years, I have trained and commanded men to achieve military solutions. I don’t undertake missions that won’t have an 80 per cent plus chance of success. I don’t risk my men’s lives needlessly, but I do take calculated risks.

I am an officer and a gentleman but under no illusion as to the nature of humankind. I hold the rank of colonel, decorated four times for bravery, and have fought in three different countries with three different armies. This is my fourth country and my last role as a combat officer. Well, as an officer full stop. That career has ended.

I am now 33 years old, in good health and reasonably fit. I have short curly brown hair, blue eyes, and a scar that runs down the left side of my face from an RPG shrapnel. I am missing a part of my trigger finger from another incident and have a tattoo on my forearm: a skull with a dagger through it resting on a scroll saying ‘Death before Dishonour’. My father had a similar tattoo from World War II. It is an old adage, dating back to nineteenth-century Europe and credited to a French admiral Bruix, who disobeyed Napoleon.

I regard myself as well educated with international working experience. I am financially well-off. I don’t drink, I don’t smoke, and I have two degrees and a formidable library. I love music, play the guitar, and collect vintage sport cars. I donate monthly to Medecins Sans Frontiéres. I have few friends outside the military culture and no family. Kids, mortgage, boring wife, and suburbia boxed in with a 9–5 job and a dick of a boss are not my basket. I don’t do boring, and it’s going to be a tough transition.

For the last five years, I have been a senior officer in a private army—a mercenary army if you wish. We hire out to legitimate governments and companies anywhere in the world, be it training, advisory roles, combat, covert ops, hostage rescue, or restoration of law and order. I have done the lot.

I knew one day I would need to retire. There is only so long the body can put up with constant physical punishment; I was beginning to realise my luck jar must be pretty empty, but I had planned on another five years at least, then possibly seeking some cushy training job without experiential learning.

Now, because of what has happened, I need to do something different. I can’t continue any longer. I need to integrate into a world I have never been a part of, have little interest in, and have minimal contacts. It is going to be tough. I am wary of commitment. I once had a fiancée, but she gave me a ‘Dear John’ letter while I was in hospital recovering from the RPG blast (the shrapnel scar). That letter and the time in hospital made me realise a military career is what I really wanted. I love adventure, life, camaraderie, logic, action, and discipline. So that’s the background.

My story goes back three, almost four, months.

We had eventually received permission, after the peace-making attempts had finally broken down, to locate and destroy the rebels’ base used by their leaders. I was in charge of the attack. As mission commander, I’d pulled in a mixed bunch of forces from different locations. We did pre-ops drills, briefing orders, and rehearsals and generally made very sure every man and his leader knew their role. I kept tight discipline, which is difficult to achieve among three allies each with differing leadership skills.

Our role was simple: my men would infiltrate the area and surround the base. Orders were to shoot those fleeing the maelstrom that was to descend upon them. Once everyone was in place and we were a go, our Cessna spotter with our Forward Fire Office would direct incoming rounds from the Nigerian 105mm howitzers to establish range for fire adjustments. Later we heard that our first ‘sighter’ round had taken out the rebel high command—all of them. They had been sitting around a sand model of Sierra Leone, discussing their campaign, when the incoming sighter exploded in their midst. For the next three days the Nigerian artillery pounded them with accurate fire, and they responded by fleeing right into our arms. We killed and captured hundreds. The defeated and demoralised rebels started to surrender in droves. This rout had their leader calling for a complete end to hostilities. But before this happened, I’d deserted my post!

The reason for my desertion started in the Angolan bush about a year earlier. I distinctly remember waking up with someone talking to me. I couldn’t remember any exact words, but I did recall a calm, soothing presence. I woke up, filled with peace and serenity.

I sat in the African dawn, a hot cup of coffee in my hand, watching the sunrise and thinking it was not so much a voice but a particular sound. I tried to recollect the sound. It was peculiar, not quite a voice but sounded something like indistinct words. It had been clear and persistent, then at times like a babble; but I couldn’t make out words. When I fixed onto the ‘babble’, I could identify it better as the sound of water over rocks, a river, but at the same time somehow forming into a voice, chiming and melodious. It reminded me of a young voice, possibly female.

The sun was climbing, and soon the early morning chill would disappear and the harsh day would march in. But for now, the sun was still gentle and our men waiting in stand-to positions. Today, being a day off, well, as much as a day off means in an operational zone. We were securing our positions and getting ready for a push inland, so it was a make-and-mend day. The armoured personnel carriers (APCs) would be serviced, weapons checked, plans discussed, drills carried out, all making ready to wage war again.

Our allies, the Angolan column, were three kilometres away to our north and going through the same preparations, with our guys advising. I spent the whole day feeling ‘soothed as if bathed in that water’, and I know this sounds silly but sort of lucky. Blessed is the word that comes to mind, but it’s is not a word I use. It was a wonderfully strange feeling of contentment, and I could not find any reason for it. The sound-dream had, for some reason, given me an inexplicable feeling of comfort and well-being—a source of comfort that I carried with me through the day. As the day sharpened, I realised I was seeing colours more vividly. My heightened senses diminished as the day became businesslike, the harsh reality of our campaign kicking back into gear. As I looked around at my men, I felt compassion for them, their families, and loved ones, who lived in daily fear for their safety.

Three months later, I had a similar dream. Our push through to the diamond area had been successful, but it had been a tough battle. The enemy had become desperate; they didn’t want to give up their diamond revenue and were a much tougher proposition than the rebels in Sierra Leone would later prove to be. We were stressed from the continual fighting; we too had taken some casualties.

I had fallen asleep, dirty and exhausted. At some point in that dead sleep, I heard the sound of water, filling my dreaming mind. This time it was not gentle but swift and full, like a powerful river, being forced into a narrow gorge with steep, rough sides. It was ominous and summoning, and I understood that I would be called upon to do something and I would need to obey. I also knew that it was feminine (I don’t why) and calling me through that river sound, powerfully pulling me along in its flow.

I woke up feeling expectant but at the same time again soothed, calm, at peace, the death and destruction of the offensive somehow neutralised and cleansed. But the dream this time was different; I really couldn’t shake it off the whole day. I felt the river had taken me to another place, but I could not remember any details. However, a sense of predestination of immense power and, I must add, goodness had somehow been conveyed to me. I knew I would meet this force. For some reason, I had a young girl’s image, vague and ill defined. She was reaching out to me. I felt I had a connection with her, but was it in the future or perhaps in the past? It was strange, disconcerting, but at the same time comforting.

Soon after arriving in Sierra Leone, that feeling of predestination or déjá vu came back even stronger. She was here, and I could feel her pull. This ‘sense of pulling/urgency’ had grown steadily over the last 18 months, and I was often conscious of the river flowing in my head. It was not intrusive, but it was there, and it was a comforting presence. For what and why I didn’t know.

When our attack against the rebels began with the first sighter round going in, that gentle burbling sound shifted into swift-flowing water: tumultuous, gushing, and heading towards a precipice—a shout demanding action that overran everything else that was happening—an imperative summons.

I responded without a second thought. Shouting an order to Kobus Nel to take over command, I left, running at high speed, leaving my incredulous ops command behind. Not for one minute did it cross my mind that I was endangering my life or the lives of my men. I just knew the attack would go according to plan and now I had another mission.

The pace of events zooms ahead:

I disappear into the bush running. She is close. I am not sure where I am going, but I know the path. I run for about three kilometres without pause, carrying my rifle and five spare mags of ammo. I’m following the sound of the water (in my head); it grows stronger and louder when I’m on ‘track’ and fades abruptly when I move ‘off track’.

I see black smoke rising above the treetops. I move directly towards the smoke, possibly another kilometre away. I run, oblivious to the possibility of an ambush, confident that our sweeps would have located and destroyed rebel presence, but also I don’t care. I arrive on the road and move forward, keeping low and to the side of the road. The bush is luxuriant up to the road edge. As I come around the corner, I see five bodies lying on the road, a car, and a truck burning. Other vehicles stand around, abandoned, the doors open, bullet holes in the doors. I know there will be blood trails into the bush.

Nothing is moving. There is a sound of fire, crackling and explosive. I can feel the heat even at this distance. I run past the bodies. They are sprawled, half out the car, trying to flee but shot in the back. Violent death no longer disturbs me. I’ve become callous, thick skinned. The rebels have not yet mutilated the bodies. The red earth beneath the bodies is staining dark; the blood is fresh, ten minutes at most.

I track the spoor and hear shouting—raised voices. I’m sweating. The river’s source is near, around the next corner?

Through the undergrowth, I see them. A group of seven rebels, young, dressed in assorted army gear, brandishing their weapons at the group of terrified citizens huddled together. One of them casually lifts his rifle. He’s firing at point-blank range, three short bursts. Brrt, brrt, brrt! A group of three are torn asunder—a child with probably her parents. The remaining civilians are terrified, shuddering and screaming.

I inch closer. I am too far. I don’t want to hit the civilians, and there are too many rebels for me to take out in one long burst or individually. I need a stun grenade. They are focused on their captives and don’t hear me as I quietly close the gap between us.

Then I see her. I don’t know why; I just know it is her call sign I have been dream-hearing. She’s a small girl, not yet a teenager, maybe eleven or—her arms are outstretched, not pleading; but, god help me, it looks like appealing or, bizarrely, forgiving. Although I have never seen her, I absolutely know and recognise her as from my dreams. I hear no words. Their leader is shouting something; their guns come to bear on her. She is going to die.

I shout, ‘NO!’ Lifting my weapon, finger instinctively pushing off the safety catch and down onto auto, I squeeze the trigger, subconsciously tensing for the recoil. No time left. The burst of gunfire doesn’t happen. My gun will not fire. Their guns don’t fire. It’s like they are all jammed. It makes no sense; I can’t register what is happening. It’s all in slow motion, frozen time.

Next thing my weapon is so burning hot. I drop it, and the rebels drop theirs. The heat is white hot, and the river is roaring. Loud, deafening, urging, compelling, pushing me along with it. But it is now icy cold and flowing with such overwhelming force I can’t resist the power. I am pushed over, drowning, dragged under, and washed away.

The sound calms, and I find myself on my knees, with my eyes closed and my head bent forward as if bowed in prayer. (I know this sounds crazy.)

Seconds later (or so it seems), the sound of the water is gone; the rebels are lined up in front of this child, and she is talking to them. I can’t hear or understand her words. I can see the rebels too are mesmerised, frozen. What had happened? Perhaps they too had the same experience as me, that rushing water? As I’m trying to make sense of what just happened, they suddenly turn and run, like the legions of hell are after them, their guns left where they fell.

Moving my gaze from her, I see something that turns my blood to ice. The civilian survivors are motionless, frozen in contorted positions of fear and recoil, caught at that exact moment the rebels opened fire at the girl. They look like they have been paused, suspended in space, motion, and time. (This is what I saw.)

The young girl turns to focus her gaze on the dead couple and child. I hear the river sound again, this time, sad and bottomless. It’s flowing, gentler now, calmer, a river of tears. I hear a change in pitch, becoming higher, like tiny bells chiming in crisp light, now blindingly bright, the bells deafeningly loud. I close my eyes and cover my ears to still the sound. Then silence! Just like that.

When I open my eyes, the shattered, murdered child is alive, and so are the two adults who went down with her. The civilians are no longer frozen.

This young girl is now looking at me. Absorbing me in a way I will never forget. Our eyes lock, and I know what I have witnessed will be believed by no one. She is a special being, and I am awed by this diminutive girl who has made the impossible possible. She is so completely unafraid. She is no victim.

She has called me, summoned me, to her. Now she is looking at me with an intensity of knowing: in a split second of insight, I realise that it has been my purpose to find her and take her to safety. And I also know she will call on me again—one day.

I move forward towards her, my mind reeling and my thoughts incoherent.

Can you speak English? Are you injured? She is looking at me with her innocent young face and wise ancient eyes, nods, then shakes her head.

Do you have anywhere to go?

I hear a silent no. Then, a small voice in good English, Please help me leave here. I don’t know what to tell you, but I have a very important life mission, which is unclear, but my survival is vital. I know who you are and why you are here. You will win this battle, but the war in my country is lost. There is still a plague to come, and the world will again turn its back. Peace is many years away. My time is short, and there is much to do. I need your help. I am sorry to have brought such huge change into your life. No one will believe what happened today. Please! The intensity from those yellow-green eyes increases. Do your best to forget if you can. I need you to help me leave. Now.

I had no words. What could I say? I ask rather stupidly, What is your name?

Kimulimuli Busara Otinga is what my mother named me. But everyone calls me Becca.

Does it mean anything? I knew some names had meaning. I am still stunned, trying to process my profound witnessing—mouth dry, my heart pounding with shock and disbelief but also sensing the extreme urgency of her words. She looked at me again, strangely focused, before replying, The Wise Firefly.

Chapter 2

London

Could this be real? A true prospect? It might just conceivably be that for the first time in over 2,000 years a real Prime had appeared and been positively identified. Statistically he knew this to be a remote possibility, yet he fervently hoped it was true; however, part of him knew it was highly unlikely. He remembered, with some discomfort, the two false starts he’d experienced. Would this be a third? TJ smiled inwardly, noting his flutter; the thrill, the excitement, an inwardly sensing ‘third time lucky’. Maybe.

He stretched his short fat frame, arching backwards in his plush chair, trying to ease his aching lower back pain, his belly straining against the buttons of his fine white cotton shirt.

TJ, the managing director of Global Monitoring Services London, known as GMS UK, is part of a successful and secretive group of autonomous but interlinked companies situated around the world. Their core business is prediction, and they are very good at it. GMS had, over 70 years, developed and continued to evolve a unique set of predictive technologies, working with ‘big’ and complex data sets at individual, group, and societal levels in order to understand and predict changing human value systems (known as memes, the societal equivalent of genes) and how the future may unfold.

This capability, now massively enhanced through AI and a supercomputer, allows simulated predictions around how individuals, companies, governments, political groupings, or any identifiable group may exercise preferences and make decisions. The predictions have a validity and reliability ranging between 65 and 93 per cent with time horizons stretching from one month to decades. At an individual level, it is used to predict how an individual’s career may develop over their lifetime and how they may add unique value to work. This predictive ability has become highly desirable and sought after by both individuals and organisations. It was this individual segment that kept its alumni loyal and growing and is what made GMS so very profitable. Over time these advanced, unusual intelligence capabilities produced an extensive global network of alumni and loyal customers. Among its ranks are highly respected and well-known public and private figures, as well as the rich and famous.

TJ often commented to trusted clients and staff that what GMS did was a little like the predictive science of Hari Seldon’s psychohistory in Isaac Asimov’s stories The Foundation Series. Psychohistory was an algorithmic science that allowed Seldon to predict the future in probabilistic terms.

But today TJ was both excited and nervous. In fact, he had been feeling apprehensive since the possibility of this Prime was raised. It made him feel aroused, excited, enervated. Today, he didn’t feel 67 years old. His smile was back. Over the years he had camouflaged his high-octane burn and autocratic leadership style by presenting a strong yet calm and reassuring persona. He consciously encouraged contemplation, patience, and consideration; and it had worked. When confusion and doubt reigned, clients, friends, and employees turned to him for his calm, logical, and methodical problem-solving manner. His was a soothing balm to resolve issues while introducing necessary tolerance into intransigent and vexed situations. He excelled in managing challenges and change. In fact, he thrived on challenge.

TJ looked the part, and he knew it. People would frequently compliment him on his distinguished judicial appearance (like a judge or a member of the board of an old-fashioned insurance company). This image may well have been deliberate due to his preference for waistcoats and bowties. TJ secretly imagined he looked rather like a Rumpole from the old Bailey. He certainly enjoyed his plonk, but definitely not from Pomeroy’s bar. He has exceptionally fine taste not only in wine but in almost all aspects of life.

His office is beautifully appointed. He sits, ensconced in an engulfing Chippendale chair, protected by the formidable barrier of a vast gleaming mahogany desk inlaid with finely tooled green leather. A classic brass desk lamp puts out a soft arc of suffused light. Facing his desk, two late-Victorian Amboyna chairs intricately inlaid with mother of pearl except for the plush velvet burgundy medallion back support between the bowed reed supports.

Two large and ornately framed oil paintings face his desk. Both paintings are deeply significant if you understood TJ. The oils reflect his belief in Rudyard Kipling’s motto: ‘Fill the unforgiving minute with sixty seconds’ worth of distance run.’ Life to TJ is about achieving goals. Clearly set goals, being focused upon within reason; commitment; tenacity; and singularity of purpose. Voila! Result. His secret was constantly visualising success and knowing success.

The other half of his trick is holding that vision, continually working on it all the time to ensure clarity. New-age literature calls it manifestation. To TJ, a life without purposeful work is a meaningless life; after all, meaningful work results in fulfillment and achievement. TJ is passionate in his approach. His life priorities and vision created what is now GMS.

He had a harsh working regime as a result of deeply engrained working habits formed as a young penniless man from the working class in London. TJ hates sleep, viewing it as a practice run for death. Having said that, he would be the first to admit he seldom went to bed after ten. Every morning, come fair weather or foul, TJ would be up and working by 5.15. This allowed him two hours of uninterrupted working time.

TJ stretched again. The nervousness anticipation of finding a Prime made him fidget. His deeply visualised focus of finding a Prime had for a long time been his primary goal. He could acknowledge this to himself with brutal honesty.

He controlled his impulse to jump up and rush to talk to others, to fill the air with uncharacteristic jabber than wait for the appointed time. But he won’t. Over time he’s become restrained, able to control, and direct his impulsiveness. Few would think of TJ as being impulsive.

The video conference was due to begin in 30 minutes. TJ had decided to involve as few persons as possible at this early stage; however, he needed sound counsel from those whose opinions he values. He’d advised all of the attendees of the highly confidential nature of the meeting, which would not have a written agenda. He definitely did not want this news prematurely leaked. He knew GMS would leak internally like a sieve, with news of such magnitude, even if later proved false. He knew rumours cause harm. TJ viewed this new development as not only significant but also extremely important, i.e. this possibility of a Prime. So much so that he’d invited their founder, Idris, now infirm and in his late nineties, to participate through a video conference. He’d told Idris what the meeting was about so as to entice his involvement; the bait had worked. The meeting was to be attended by his two peers from GMS, Jean Auriel from the United States and Alex Sithole from the Southern African region, as well as two members of his own team.

TJ knew he would and must have more information to be certain but felt he had some pretty reliable information sources to support this meeting. He had once made a mistake with a person he thought to be a Prime more than two decades ago; he’d acted hastily and against advice, specifically Idris’s advice. This had exposed the company to a lot of risk in TJ’s desperate race to bring her, whom he was convinced was a Prime, into the GMS support net. GMS had called in and invested considerable resources to reach out and extract her from the then Soviet Union.

She had been smuggled in, given an identity, only to discover as she grew older she became increasingly unstable and eventually was permanently committed for violent insanity. It had been a messy operation, and he had been severely criticised. He hated failing; such public failure was a lesson he never wanted to repeat; he’d learnt well. Once bitten twice shy.

In another case, this time from the United States, his colleague Jean Auriel had called up a prospect, which had also ended badly. That person aggrandised himself into a cult leader who killed himself after murdering seventy-six others, as well as a number of government agents in a murderous standoff in Texas. However, he had asked her to attend today, knowing she was now, like him, especially cautious.

Angela, his PA, knocked lightly and entered. She is dressed in a short black well-fitting dress, her golden hair piled high on her head. Her GMS broach pinned a little above her left breast, a design done in silver on a gold background, an exquisitely crafted spiral emblem. This insignia was only given to employees who became accredited GMS consultants. Men were given the same design but as a lapel pin. A signifier that the wearer had attained the requisite knowledge, skills, experience, and wisdom to be a GMS practitioner.

Angela glides into the room on her stilettos, bringing a cup of coffee for TJ, which she places on a coaster next to him. She has a faint smile lighting her face. For six years she has worked for TJ and is deeply loyal. He’s been a great boss, kind and considerate, a mentor, and friend. He’s godfather to Amber, her young daughter. Amber, at 8, is his greatest fan and toughest literary critic because she is his appointed ‘first reader’. TJ’s not-so-secret hobby is as a writer: he likes to write children’s adventure stories. He’s now on his sixth book.

Amber says to tell you she has finished the last chapter and wants to talk to you. I don’t think she likes it. A serious look flickers over Angela’s face.

Oooh, that is not good. Do tell her I will see her this week, TJ responds, but distractedly, there’s tension in his voice. I am more nervous of her opinions than anyone else’s I can think of.

Well, she’s certainly the only one who can stop you short, laughs Angela. Why not come around for dinner when you are free and then the two of you can discuss it? That warm smile again for TJ, thinking of how fond she is of him. He is the kindest, cleverest, and most amusing person she knows, certainly the most considerate and precise manager she’d ever known. Softly she adds, TJ, you can come through to the boardroom anytime you’re ready. It’s all set it all up and waiting. Lambert and Julian are already there.

Thank you, Angela, he murmurs, distracted. Angela is intrigued about the meeting. She knows something unusual is afoot. TJ has been uncharacteristically uncommunicative about the meeting, and there’s no agenda. She is usually privy to confidential matters, and she knows TJ seldom communicates with Idris these days. Angela ponders why Jean and Alex are also involved, and why Julian? Lambert, she can understand, not that she likes him, but she knows he is TJ’s right hand.

Everyone knows Julian is the most promising young analyst and is highly regarded but certainly not someone she would have expected to be called to such a meeting, especially with the founder. She has to admit but only to herself that she is a bit miffed at being left out in the cold, so to speak.

Ah, Angela, how did you know this is just what I need? He looks up, now properly acknowledging her as he sips his coffee.

Helps having worked with you for years. There’s a tone of genuine fondness for him in her voice. He sips his coffee, again deep in thought. After a short pause, Angela quietly leaves.

Finishing his coffee, TJ gets up and walks towards the interconnecting door that leads into a small panelled meeting room. Inside—and waiting—are Lambert and Julian, sitting at the boardroom table. They stand up as TJ enters. They shake hands.

Lambert Cisco is third generation, originally from Pakistan. He is tall, elegant, and good-looking. His fitness and well-being shine out like a beacon. TJ has often suggested that he should be the brand face of a fitness chain. He’d be a great advert for a healthy mind in a healthy body. In fact, three years ago TJ had a desk plaque made for him: ‘Mens Sana in Corpo Sano’.

Lambert is not liked. To TJ he is polite, almost subservient, and does his bidding, whatever it may be, without question. Lambert can be charming when necessary, quick-witted, and tactful. He possesses significant capability and a devastating sense of sarcastic humour that serves to endear him to no one. He enjoys not only the visual arts but clearly martial arts as well, having a third dan black belt in Kyokushin karate. He is totally dedicated to TJ and GMS. TJ had taken him under his wing on the estates as a rebellious 17-year-old youth. TJ and Lambert share a deep fondness for each other, which many do not understand.

Julian, on the other hand, is a different kettle of fish. A gifted child, who, after graduating at 19, was recruited directly to GMS. Normally the average age to become an accredited practitioner is 27 while he, at 27, is already a competent practitioner and making a considerable reputation for himself. TJ was told he had an innate appreciation for the work and had made a mental note that he might be his potential successor, although he was still very young.

His youth could count against him, thought TJ, while musing on his dress sense, which he considered appalling. Julian looks ruffled like he has just got out of bed. His long thin frame was slumped in his chair. He did not look a superstar; but there it was: the gold-and-silver lapel pin, the badge of recognition, which Julian wore on his waistcoat!

TJ was mentally already devising the rudiments of a plan if indeed this was a Prime, and he needed someone young, who could fit into his schema. Julian could be perfect, still fresh and not too deeply imbued with the GMS culture; he looks the part and is clear thinking. Perfect. TJ made a mental note to ask Angela to arrange a business trip for him and Julian to get to know him a bit better. TJ had already told Lambert to